Uncle Havelock?
by Ficus-Avenger
Summary: Featuring a drunken Downey, a bored Vetinari and a very persistant Young Sam. What else would you need to know?


Vetinari sidled away from the group he'd been intently listening to, and looked around for a suitable vantage point from which he could observe the upcoming entertainment in peace. He'd been plying Downey with brandy for the best part of an hour, and the man was just on that line between Ultimate Party Dude and catatonia. He felt a small pang of guilt for doing something like this during one of Sybil's little gatherings, but he quickly dismissed it. Sybil may have many fine qualities, but she threw incredibly boring parties. He leaned into a shadow in the corner of the room and waited.

"My mum says you know everything."

Vetinari looked down and saw Young Sam leaning against the wall beside him, trying his best to look nonchalant. Unfortunately he hadn't yet picked up his father's skills in sneakiness, and couldn't have managed to make himself look even more conspicuous if he'd jumped up on a table in the middle of the party and began to sing the Hedgehog song. Vetinari smiled. "And what does your father say?"

"He says you know too much for your own bloody good."

"Ah, yes, that sounds like something he'd say."

"_Do_ you know everything?"

Vetinari considered the question carefully. "…No," he said at last. "There are some things I am yet to find out."

"Like what?"

"I don't know what I don't know."

"Huh?"

"Why don't you ask me a question and we'll find out if I know the answer."

"Okay." Sam screwed up his face in thought. "How old am I?"

"Eight years, two months, thirty-four minutes and…" Vetinari pulled a small watch out of his pocket and glanced at it, "…fifty-four seconds old."

"What's my dad's middle name?"

"Eustace, but don't tell him I know that. He doesn't like people to know he has one."

"How many bricks are in my house?"

"A lot."

Sam gave him a huge grin. "Aha! You don't know, do you?"

"Not offhand. But if you really want to know then I could give you an estimate based on the dimensions of your house and the size of the average brick." Vetinari closed his eyes for a second. "One million, two hundred and forty-seven thousand, eight hundred and two."

"How do I know that's right?"

"Simple. Just knock down your house and start counting if you're that bothered."

"Oh." Sam fell silent for a moment. "I don't think my dad would like it if I did that."

"Well, you never know until you try it." Vetinari noticed Sam stand up suddenly and he fixed a welcoming smile on his face as Sybil bore down on them with all the good intentions of a taffeta-covered iceberg in a busy shipping lane.

"Sam, are you bothering your Uncle Havelock?"

"No, mum," said Sam sulkily. "I was just chatting."

"Yes, but your uncle doesn't chat, dear." Sybil gave Vetinari an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry if he was bothering you, Havelock."

"Oh, it's quite alright."

"That's kind of you to say, but it's time Young Sam was off to bed anyway. Come on, Sammie, its past your bedtime."

"Aw, but mum, it's only ten!"

"Don't 'but mum' me, dear. Off you go--" Sybil turned at the sound of a loud crash and a scream coming from the far end of the hall. A look of exasperation filled her face. "Oh goodness, don't tell me Downey started doing his seamstress impressions again—excuse me one moment, please…"

"What's a seamstress?"

Vetinari sighed. "Aren't you supposed to be going to bed?"

"Yes."

"Then why aren't you?"

"Because I'm eight," said Sam, as if this answer contained the answer to every question that could ever be asked of him. Vetinari supposed it rather did.

"Ah."

"So what's a seamstress?"

"A lady who sews things."

"No, it's not."

"Yes, it is."

"No, it isn't. My dad says a seamstress is something else."

"Then your father says too much around a boy of your age."

"But he won't tell me what it means."

"Good for him."

"What does it mean?"

Vetinari gave the boy a sideways look. Had he been this annoying when he was that age? "It's a special term for a certain type of lady," he said carefully.

"A Lady like my mum?"

"…No. Definitely not." Vetinari paused. "Perhaps lady was the wrong word to use." He pursed his lips thoughtfully and considered his next words thoroughly. "It's a term used for a certain type of woman who will be…affectionate to someone for money."

"What? Like give them hugs and stuff?"

"Something like that."

"My mum hugs her friends a lot."

"Seamstresses give people special hugs."

"Oh."

"Indeed."

There was a pause as they watched Sam's father wrestle Downey off the buffet table and cover him with his jacket. Vetinari's lips twitched as he saw Vimes give the drunken man a sneaky elbow in a very sensitive and personal area.

"Why does my mum tell me to call you Uncle Havelock?"

"Because that's the sort of thing she does."

"Are you really my Uncle?"

"N--" Vetinari paused and considered the question carefully; establishing the parentage of an individual could sometimes be a difficult matter in Ankh-Morpork society, even at the upper echelons of it. "No," he said at last. "I'm quite sure of that."

"Can I call you something else?"

"That depends on what you want to call me."

"Do you want to know what my dad calls you?"

"A boy your age shouldn't swear."

"He says you're the best thing that's happened to this city."

"Yes, well he's one to talk--"Vetinari stopped as his brain caught up with his ears. He gave Sam a surprised look. "He really said that?"

"Yep."

Vetinari blinked. "Was he feeling himself at the time?"

"What's that mean?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing." Vetinari waved a hand at the boy and raised his eyebrows as he mulled over what he'd said. "My word, I do hope Vimes is alright."

"He also says you're a twisty-minded little git."

"Ah," said Vetinari, breathing a sigh of relief. "That sounds more like him."

"My dad says lots of things."

"Yes, he is rather outspoken, isn't he?"

"He says a lot of things about you."

"I imagine he does."

"My mum says you're all he talks about most days."

"Mmm-hmm."

"She says that if she didn't know better she'd swear you were having an affair, he talks about you so much."

"Aha," said Vetinari, refusing to give any more of an answer than this.

"What does having an affair mean?"

"Shouldn't you be asking your father about this sort of thing?"

"Probably."

"Then why don't you?"

"Because I'm asking you."

Vetinari frowned and fixed the boy with a glare that would've had any one else in the room run screaming for cover. Sam stared back unflinchingly. Despite his irritation, Vetinari was impressed. "Do you know what being married means?"

This time it was Sam who was glaring. "I'm eight, not stupid."

Vetinari bit down hard on his tongue to prevent himself from answering that one a little too honestly. "Having an affair means being affectionate to someone you're not married to."

"Like a seamstress?"

"Sort of."

"Do you do that with my dad then?"

"What?"

"Give him hugs and stuff."

"I can safely say that I have never hugged your father, Samuel."

"Oh." Sam looked over at where Vimes now had the still-struggling Downey pinned to the floor and was fixing a pair of handcuffs around his wrists. "My dad's a policeman."

"I know."

"He arrests bad guys and locks them up."

"Yes."

"He says that sometimes you make him let them go."

"Sometimes."

"Why?"

"Because it's necessary."

"Why?"

"Because it is."

"Are you a bad guy?"

"Possibly. For a given value of bad, at least."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that to do something good, sometimes you have to do something some people may consider bad."

"My mum says saying things like that is just giving yourself an excuse for doing things you know you shouldn't do."

Vetinari blinked. "Your mother can be a very astute woman at times."

"She said that when I beat up Robby Rust."

"Why did you do that?"

"He threw a stick at my friend Emma and told her to go fetch."

"Ah. Was it worth it?"

"Yes."

"Then it's not an excuse, it's a reason." Vetinari shifted position slightly and fought back a yawn. "I understand that you'll be starting at the Assassins school in a few years. Are you nervous?"

"No."

"Good for you."

"My dad doesn't want me to go."

"Yes, I know." Vetinari tried to stifle his grin as he recalled how he'd ordered Downey to induct the boy even before the Vimes' had had a chance to look at other schools. When Sybil had told her husband that refusing such an invitation would be unthinkable due to bad manners, Vimes' screams of rage could apparently be heard from four streets away, even in heavy traffic.

"Anyway, my dad says that if I become an Assassin he'll stop my pocket money."

"If you become an Assassin you won't need pocket money. You'll be rich in your own right."

"Are you rich then?"

"Yes."

"Then why do you dress like that?"

Vetinari frowned and looked down at his outfit. "What's wrong with the way I dress?"

"What's _right_ with it?"

"What don't you like about it?"

"Your robe thing looks silly. So does the little hat thing you wear."

"Yes, I've heard that."

"My friend Emma says you wear it because you're going bald under there."

"Does she really?" For the first time since his days at the Assassins Guild and his feud with Downey, Vetinari found himself wondering whether it'd be possible to get a child arrested. "Tell me, Samuel, where does your friend live?"

"Why _do_ you wear it?"

"Because it's what Patricians wear."

"So if you didn't wear it, you wouldn't be Patrician any more?"

"Not quite. But people do get an impression of you and what you do through what you wear and it can give you a certain authority."

"Like my dad's uniform?"

"Yes. If you dress like a watchman, you are a watchman. Likewise, if you dress like the Patrician, then you are the Patrician," said Vetinari. "Basically, it all comes down to the hat you wear, so to speak."

"It's all about hats then?"

"Exactly. It's _all_ about the hat." Vetinari looked up as a sullen, barely-shaven figure sauntered over in their direction. "Ah, Vimes. We were just talking about you."

"You were?" Vimes shot a look in his son's direction. "Shouldn't you be in bed, Sam?"

"Uncle Havelock made me talk to him," said Sam innocently.

"That doesn't surprise me, he makes everyone talk to him eventually." Vimes ruffled his son's hair affectionately. "Go on, off you go. I'll be up to say goodnight in a minute."

"He's a good boy, Vimes. You must be proud."

"Yes, I am," Vimes watched his son climb the stairs. "He wasn't bothering you, was he?"

"Oh, not at all. Tell me, Vimes, have you given any thought to his future employment, other then marking him down for anything that doesn't entail being an Assassin?"

"Not really. Why?"

"No reason," said Vetinari. "I just think we may have some use for him down at the palace some day. We could use a new interrogator."


End file.
